


Nightmares

by wubbabub



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: C137cest, Gaslighting, Incest, M/M, rickmorty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4667453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wubbabub/pseuds/wubbabub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morty is having strange dreams. Rick is gonna help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this around June 2014, and am uploading it here for safekeeping. While I'm not gonna reread my work, I hope it's still decent (...for what it is) and that someone enjoys it :v  
> this chap is more on the 'suggestive' side :vv

The first time they appear, Morty’s dream is set in the kitchen. He numbly opens the fridge, registers none of its contents, and the hands approach him from behind. No matter how directly he looks at where he can definitely feel them touching, his eyes won’t focus, and they’re at best a beige-gray blur. He feels hazy and can’t think but can feel. The hands are bigger than his, pointier, fingers longer; the palms are rough and harsh. He can manage a distant, stupid thought like ‘this person needs moisturizer’ but can’t materialize ‘who is this’ as a question. The hands travel up his shirt, smooth up and down, squeeze his hips for just a second, and Morty pops awake, hard but that’s not unusual.

————————————–

The next consecutive night, Morty is sitting on the living room couch, the TV on with blurry figures moving about and mumbling audio, none of which adds up to something decipherable; still he watches it as if that’s all he expects from a TV. The hands come from above the back of the couch, reaching down, one catching his jaw, thumb smoothing over his lips, one moving down his arm, they seem slightly more purposeful. The familiarity of them feels calming, the same calluses from before marking the palms, the same dry, cracked skin smoothing over his, he sinks into the couch and dips his head down to watch them do as they will. 

He can tell they’re attached to someone, he can feel the arms, he can feel the weight of a body pressing into the back of the couch, but craning his head back as far as he can gives nothing. It’s bothersome this time, enough consciousness in his dream-mind that he can half-form questions, move his lips slightly, but he can’t care enough to push them off. The thumb on his lip pushes it down and he parts his teeth without thought, letting it in to rest against his tongue, light pressure, a slight bitter taste he knows is familiar. An unseeable body moves to crane over the couch a little more, hover above him, reach a hand down to the brim of his jeans, and Morty wakes up same as before.

————————————–

The third time is in the garage; he’s tinkering with the nonsensical items on the work desk, turning a screwdriver in his hands, pinching fingers around devices with dials and buttons that he vaguely remembers the shapes of. Everything is a little less foggy, more lucid, and he actively wonders when those hands are going to come back. Weight presses into his back, though there were no footsteps preceding it he isn’t surprised, it feels expected, familiar, fine. He leans back and can feel the rise and fall of a chest against his head, closes his eyes and lets the hands do as they have for days. 

This time they are firm, cupping over his ribs, sliding down to grip the jut of his hip bone, one grabs his wrist and tugs it to his side. He thinks he should be alarmed but really isn’t. He opens his eyes to look at them, surprised when they’re more in-focus. He can make out the knuckles, knobby, worn, ashy. The wrists are boney and the shapes in them are jagged. He already knew the fingertips were pointed, just from feeling them, but now he can see, watching one slide to the waistband of his jeans, his briefs, sinking under fabric, just barely touching at hair. He sighs out, feeling lucky, feeling cocky, like he’s being lavished. Around the wrists is pale blue, striping behind that is white. The hand on his wrist firmly grips him in place, though he doesn’t know why; he has no inkling to escape. The other slides lower, slower than he can imagine, he bites his lip watching it disappear into his jeans, dips his hips forward eagerly, hoping to encourage it, exciting, thrilling. He can’t wait to feel it.

He wakes up just before they touch and picks up where they left off, hands down past his stomach.

————————————–

Morty doesn’t think hard about anything as a habit. 

————————————–

He’s in a great mood all week, a pep in his step, a greater tolerance for Rick’s casual debasing of his character, a better mind to roll with the punches. They’re perched precariously on the shallow ledge of a cliff, walking to get some—egg or something for Rick’s science or whatever. It’s very important.

“Careful, Morty” Rick says as they ease along the edge, a sideways shuffle. “Pay attention” he snaps when Morty’s really not. “This is a real great way to fall off a cliff, if you’re going, aiming for that, keep doing what you’re doing,” he continues, before finally grabbing Morty’s wrist tightly. “Can yoOUHHGu hear me?”

Morty jerks his wrist “Y-yeah geez I—“ Rick’s grip is firm, “I-I heard you the ff—first time” he pulls against it but Rick won’t let go. It’s familiar because it happens a lot.

“ReUUghally don’t know if I can trust you today, Morty, I’m not letting—going to let you fall of a damn cliff, because you’re too stupid to remember to be afraid of them. HEIGHTS, MmoUUGHorty. Plummeting, crushing death, you—you hit terminal velocity from up he- this high- Morty, you’re dead before you even hit the ground. Do you GET that?”  
Morty nods as vigorously as possible to get Rick to stop staring at him, goes to shake off Rick’s hand again, looks at his wrist

the penny drops.

————————————–

The realization changes everything in reality and nothing in his dreams, except that now the hands always in focus, clear, unmistakable. He’s as trusting of them as ever in his unconscious, they’re familiar and comforting, they stroke down his sides and wrap around his cock and tug at his skin, he feels them in his hair, on his back. He leans warmly against the enveloping figure and curls his fingers around the draping coat of fabric that hangs behind him, sighs out. He lets fingers slip into his mouth and explore the back of his throat, he sucks and memorizes the feeling of the first knuckle passing his lips, how the calloused undersides feel against the top of his tongue, the bitter taste of alcohol found here and there on the pads. He’s accommodating every night and takes cold showers every morning. why why why why why

————————————–

“Hey, R-Rick?” he barely says, standing feet behind Rick who is mashing together some items on his work-desk with great concentration. Rick burps and then grunts, which means ‘go on’.

“Do you, you think you have anything th-that works, about nightmares?” Morty twiddles his thumbs together, not looking at Rick, like he has been doing the past two days since he almost fell off that cliff.  
“Don’t know what that means Morty” Rick says flatly, a conversation stopping tone.  
“I-I mean something that, uhhh, gets rid of them?”  
“You want me to make your nightmares go away? Did yoOuugh piss the bed or-or something?” Morty purses his lips, but Rick just continues tapping a piece of metal on another.   
“They’re j-just really distracting and it’s ef, effecting my- helping you, with y-your work,” Morty is clever, knows what Rick really cares about, and that little addition makes the tap-tap stop as things suddenly become relevant to Rick.

Grumbles come from the work desk, and Morty starts looking around the room, anything but at Rick; as he has done for days. Rick burps and Morty jerks back to the present.“There’s the dream inceptor”

Morty’s heart stops and all of his weight sinks to his feet  
he forgot he forgot he forgot

 

“NO,” he spits out, too loud too quickly, making Rick flinch at his desk and snap his head back and Morty immediately starts backing out of the room, looking at his feet, looking at the clock, looking at the door

“I-m-mmmnn- N-Nevermind! I-I-I w-was , it was stupid no-nothing! Forg-g-get about it! I-I-I’m ju-just distracted by sc-school stuff lately y-you know the, nightmares like, it’s no not a big deal I—I can handle it! I’ll f-fix mymy– stuff”, he’s the worst at everything ever he can’t believe he forgot the dream inceptor can’t believe he didn’t realize that was the first thing Rick would bring up can’t believe he forgot. Prays to god Rick doesn’t care prays to god he resumes his work and treats this as another weird fit to disregard please please

————————————–

Morty is sound asleep. Rick watches pupils dart under his eyelids.  
“Nooooo secrets between us, Morty,” Rick whispers to the kid, who doesn’t stir at all, trusting him to sleep like the dead like always. “None of that. OUghhor, not for you, anyway, “ he bends down and places the device in Morty’s ear, opposite in his own, sits on Morty’s bed with his back propped against the wall, steals himself an abandoned pillow on the floor and fluffs it behind his back. Gotta be comfy for this stuff.

 

“Lets see what you’re aaaallll fucked up about.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this fic is pretty ambiguous about a lot of things, it’s meant to be confusing but I hope not frustratingly so. only a teeny bit of nsfw in this part. on top of previous content warnings, a warn for gaslighting.

“Alright” Rick says automatically as reality shifts around him, sort of reminiscent of going down a very rapid elevator that moves in all directions at once, he’s weightless for a moment then still and settled. He sighs, and Morty is in his lap, grinding back into his pelvis, sighing out “Rick.”

“OUGfGH” Rick slams him directly forward onto the steering wheel of—his spaceship, really– Morty of course coughs and chokes but Rick absolutely does not give a fuck, yelling “HOLY SHIT” over and over, standing up, brushing off his lap to rid himself of cooties, thanking the lord only for the fact that they’re both fully clothed and it could have been worse, though this is worse than what he ever thought possible. Rick shivers his shoulders and dramatically covers his mouth to block vomit he would love to punctuate this scene with. This has happened too fast.

“R-Rick?!” Morty chokes out, resuming hacking out a lung due to having his sternum rammed against a steering wheel and all. Rick is busy shaking his head repeatedly and doing unconvincing heaving to make some kind of point.

“This isn’t ok, Morty! Morty,” Rick starts and steals the longest glance he can manage at Morty which is about .5 second’s worth, and the kid looks like he’s going to cry or punch him.

“I-I know! I know, Rick!” Morty’s voice is a raspy shriek, which is a comfort.

“You—to—to each their own Morty everyone has this thing but don’t—don’t use me for your freaky—fucked up—sexual orientation– experimentation, for Christ sake, ch– pick some kid at your school.” Rick gestures wildly with his hands and decidedly doesn’t look at him, which is fine because Morty can’t either, they can at least do that much for each other right now.

“I’m—I’m not choosing this!! N-n-n-nightmares d-d-don’t work like that! Rick! Th-this isn’t ideal f-for me at all! Why would—wh—y—I-I – m–” Morty dissolves into unintelligible noise, struggling with words even more than usual, teeth stuck together, shaking and hyperventilating, which makes Rick draw in a breath and steady himself, hand to his forehead. In another scenario, Rick would touch his shoulder, but this is not that.

“Ok, ok, ok w-we gotta calm down, ok,” Rick says that but bends over the driver seat and heaves again, dusts his crotch repeatedly, also again. “God. You s-sick fuck.”

“RICK,” it sounds more desperate this time and Morty starts wheezing again.

“I-I’m sorry Morty it’s still! Still a shock to me! God. I’m only human Morty. I-I’ve never been so , in my life, I’ve done so many things, Morty, I-I’ve—stuff, I’ve done–seen, things I’m not proud of, lived a full life, but this is—t-takes the cake” Rick just can’t stop talking.

(It’s self-affirmation.)

“I get it, o-ok.”

“Worst experience of my life, by far” Rick continues looking into the distance, fixed on nothing. Now Morty just gives him a look, which is huge progress actually—they meet eyes during it and look at each other with a semblance of normal annoyance. There’s brief silence where Morty strokes his arm with the opposite hand, and Rick pinches his nose between his eyes to wrack his brain for options. “Okay.”

———————————————————

Morty wakes up to find Rick absent, no inceptor in his ear. He feels like it didn’t happen, the whole interaction. He could almost convince himself it was just a very realistic, convoluted dream, but the Rick in his dreams never spoke, never showed his face, never came fully into focus beyond the elbows. He knows Rick well but he could never imagine his mannerisms so exactly; he’s not that observant, can’t give his psyche enough credit to believe it was fake. Morty stares fixedly at a spot on his bedroom floor, pulls knees up to his chest and wraps arms around them.

He would like to throw up, but he just feels like jerking off.

———————————————————

Rick is miles away in an upward direction, pacing like an animal in his small spaceship, bottles clinking up a storm. One is in his fingers being swung around, half-full.

A mind-wipe, that was the first idea, the most obvious one. He desperately spat it out to Morty because there was too much quiet for too long, not because he thought it was a good, feasible plan. In the moment of desperation he thought, he could leave a note to himself spelling out directions for how to do Morty after he’s properly forgotten himself, then they could move on, and probably maybe that would also eradicate the dream nonsense. Maybe. Or if it doesn’t, Morty could just shut up about it forever if the dreams come back and he could write himself another note telling future-him to not get too curious and let some things be mysteries. A simple if Morty talks about nightmares, act like you didn’t hear a thing. Trust me.

He said all that, he quickly hurried out of that dream, he took the inceptors with him to hopefully let doubt enter Morty’s mind that he’d been there at all. He’s not sure why he wants that doubt there. He made such a good case to Morty about a solution because the kid was going to huff himself dizzy and they both needed it. But he’s not sure how to invent a thing like that right this second (and it needs to happen sooner). He can’t think.

Rick runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it, leans against the chair in his ship, takes another swig of alcohol. Looks down at the swell in his slacks that he’s been avoiding recognizing since he escaped into the stars. Groans, swears, kicks a bottle on the floor. Fuck, fuck. He takes a big sip, brings his hand back down to trace over the bulge, hisses through his teeth at it.

It’s going to be there whether he does anything about it or not, ignoring it doesn’t remove its existence. Whatever.

Zip.

———————————————————

The family noticed the lack of adventures, but nobody was curious enough to ask, because some things are Rick and Morty’s. They have their own world. Morty doesn’t step into the garage for a day but chances to stand outside of it more regularly than he thinks, hearing whirring, clinking, burping. He wonders if Rick will tell him or talk to him before he does the mind-wipe, or if it’ll be done when he’s asleep or something. He didn’t ask for intricate details at the time, anything to get Rick out out out of his unconscious faster.

Standing in front of the door, his hand hovers over the knob.

“Come on, in or not,” comes Rick’s voice from the other side, harsh and loud, Morty jumps and instinctively twists the knob. “You need something?” Rick doesn’t move from his workbench and Morty feels like he’s on another planet. Talking to Rick right now doesn’t feel real.

“H…h-how are things going?” Morty croaks out, rubbing an arm and looking away.

“Fine? Whats your end game,” Rick waves his hand , “I-if you’re gonna stay and stare slack-jawed like that at least hand me the—the thing, wrench, the big one there, will you?” Rick holds his hand out with fingers extending and contracting expectantly.

The normalcy makes Morty a weird combination of sick yet comforted. He complies because it’s natural to, hands over the tool.

“R…Rick?” Morty still doesn’t know how to say anything.

“Muh-Morty,” Rick replies, the irony of a person with a stutter imitating a stutter not lost between either of them. Morty looks at Rick for too long and Rick turns to stare back as mockery of it. There’s silence. No recognition in Rick’s eyes. Morty’s mouth opens and closes, Rick furrows and unfurrows his brow in time with it.

“U-uh, sorry, I-I’ll go?” Morty retreats backwards out the door without any fuss from Rick at all. Nothing makes sense.

———————————————————

Maybe it was a dream and Rick didn’t get into his head. Maybe he just—was so terrified of it happening the nightmare’s quality got like, bumped up, or something, maybe that is a thing that can happen. He has no proof Rick went in. He doesn’t want to ask about it. Did Rick mind-wipe himself and forget to do him in turn? Was there a fluke?

———————————————————

“H-Hey, y-you wouldn’t happen to have a like, device that uh, erases… memories? W-would you?”

“Ho boy. WhaOUUght are you trying to forget, Morty?”

“N-Nothing. Just- just wondering?”

Rick grunts and turns back to his work


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I consider this whole part optional, like a choose your own adventure. I like the previous bit as an ending but wanted to explore after it for fun, too. It either happens or it doesn’t, infinite universes. most NSFW chap here.

Morty avoided sleep for only a day and a half, all he could manage to hold out for. He had a lucky night where he didn’t dream at all, but it didn’t do much to settle any fear, just felt like stalling an inevitability. Too terrified of what he would find, but he can’t be half-awake for the rest of his life. He drinks a glass of warm milk before bed to hope he can have that kind of hard sleep where you lay your head down and feel like you instantly wake up with nothing in between.

———————————————————

That doesn’t happen, he wakes up in the ship again. Groans; at least being unconscious makes his mind dizzy and foggy enough to not be continuously anxious. For all the anxiety before bed, here he feels calm.

Rick is sitting in the driver’s chair, drinking, in full view. He guesses that having had him in there once broke whatever reservations his mind had about conjuring the whole deal. No more ambiguity. Morty swallows in his throat and Rick looks up as if he didn’t notice him existing there until just then. He has a bottle in his hands, downs a swig, burps. They don’t talk, but Rick’s eyes do glaze down Morty’s pants, brow raising. They tighten just barely under his gaze alone and Morty crosses his legs like that would help anything.

Morty doesn’t trust anything. Everything is confusing, and weird, and Rick just sits there drinking like he’s waiting.

“D-Do you talk now?” Morty’s voice is barely a whisper and pathetically wavering.

“You want me to?” Rick looks at him for only a minute before swaying his head to the side, looks out the window, another swig, another burp, a hand fiddling with his belt but doing nothing progressive with it. Morty gulps. Shimmies closer, standing beside him, in arm’s reach.

“Wh-what do you want?” Rick’s words slur more than usual, which is not wholly unusual, just rare. He’s not regularly sloshed out of his mind, which is what it sounds like. “You want me to to-to-t-ff-ffeel you up, right? It’s your dream,” Rick pats his lap and doesn’t quite look at him. Morty’s mind feels filled with cotton, soft and scratchy.

With only some hesitation he settles into Rick’s lap, not facing him, biting his lip. It’s never been a conscious choice before, but this is as much a dream as any other dream, he rationalizes, so he can do this. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.

“You w-wan– like it this way?” Rick rumbles under him, voice broken by shallow breaths, arms reaching around, bottle of alcohol still dangling from the neck between two fingers. He can’t believe this, he can’t believe this Rick’s talking to him. He can smell his alcohol-ridden breath carrying over his shoulder and shivers, because it’s so familiar. How many times has Rick hovered over him, spoke into his ear, whispered and burped terribly into it, he’s smelled that nasty mix of whiskey and dental floss and stomach acid almost every day for a year at one time or another, and now he wants it in his mouth because he’s never felt it there. That rationale makes great sense right now; it’s not happened, so he wants it to, because it can. He leans back and turns his head, parts his lips barely, hopes he can make his subconscious oblige.

“You want to kiss?” Rick’s voice is incredulous and amused, spoken inches from Morty’s lips, he comes closer until Morty can feel the vibrations of voice. “W-Wow, more fucked up than I f-thought,” Morty goes to recoil foreword but Rick’s hand grips into his gut, shoves him back against him where he was. Rick presses his lips right as Morty opens to breathe, and Rick’s mouth is cold from the whiskey, tastes unpleasant but very much like Rick. Rick’s knee starts fidgeting, rapidly jostling up and down, bumping Morty in his lap. Morty thinks that’s strange and uncharacteristic (when has Rick ever done that?) but Rick swirls his tongue around his and he can’t can’t can’t think. The longer it slips against his the warmer and more inviting Rick’s mouth gets, the less alcohol sticking, the more he just tastes like spit which is absolutely disgusting and makes Morty’s dick twitch.

Rick breaks the kiss to abort about 5 attempts at a word, completely indecipherable, curses a bunch, then sets his fingers over the outline of Morty’s cock, which makes them both jump. Rick’s leg keeps bumping, distracting, kind of annoying. The bottle in Rick’s opposite hand falls to the floor and he swears again. Fumbles with the zipper of Morty’s jeans, there is no precision in his movements. Morty watches shaking fingers pry open the button, listens to Rick’s breath behind him, feels Ricks hips twitch under him.

“T-T-Tell me what you w-want,” Rick croaks, fingers hovering. He stills his leg, finally. There’s so much in his voice that Morty can’t decipher, it’s unfamiliar, it’s Rick but not like he’s heard. Rick’s dick presses into him, Morty grinds back and Rick’s hand grabs Morty’s hip to urge him to do it again. For all the times he’s dreamed of being here, he’s never felt Rick hard against him, couldn’t fathom it. Morty braces his hand on the steering wheel for leverage and works a circular rhythm over Rick’s lap, his best clumsy effort. Rick’s shoulders shake behind him, flubbed curses sputter out. Morty doesn’t think about anything too hard as a habit, glad to shift in Rick’s lap, glad to watch his fingers twitch on his thigh.

Rick begins a tumble of w-sounds out of his mouth that eventually form into “What,” he hiccups, “what, what what do you want me t-to do M-,” he doesn’t finish the name. Morty wishes he had. But he can’t ask.

“Y-Y’know,” Morty starts, still shifting but losing rhythm. He catches Rick’s hips flinching up against him but he seems to be holding back. “D-Do what you want.”

“N-nn-no YOU, tell me.”

“Sh-sheesh,” Morty swallows, grabs Rick’s hand and eases the fingers under his briefs. “G…go.”

“Jerk you off?” Rick says flatly, doesn’t move his hand further than Morty’s placed it, only ghosting against hair and skin; he holds his breath, Morty notices, so he glances back and swears Rick is sweating. His knee starts jittering under him again. … Nervous?

“Please,” Morty sighs out and watches, watches Rick release the held breath and shiver his hips under him and doesn’t even watch his fingers curl around him, push his boxers further down, instead he looks at his face, at Rick licking his lips, at Rick swallowing thickly over and over, panting after every gulp. Rick’s hand roughly slides up and Morty nearly forgets that part, it’s sort of distant, not so physical; he’s asleep in his bed, barely rutting into the sheets, it feels so mild despite how sure Rick’s grip looks, he focuses on Rick’s face. He wants to memorize it.

He didn’t see it coming so he gasps when Rick grabs his head and turns his head back around, keeps a hand fisted in his hair, makes him look at the hand around his cock instead, “D-Don’t stare at me, God,” Rick mutters, but his hips start rhythmically rutting and Morty thinks he did something right. “Y-you little f-f-freak,” Rick hoarsely adds, punctuating it with a flick of his wrist that draws a whimper out.

It’s embarrassing but he has to, has to do it, he feels high on something, watching Rick’s thumb slide over the wet on the tip of his dick, he struggles, makes a few not-quite-there attempts before getting out “Rick,” once it’s out it’s easy to hush it again and again, Rick, Rick, Rick.

“Christ,” Rick chokes out and starts swearing under his breath again, hips moving adamantly against Morty, one hand gripping into his hip to make sure they move in time together. Morty lucidly wonders if Rick is thinking about fucking him and arches back the second the idea forms, shivers against him, grips hard at the seat with one hand and the frame of the door with his other, watches come slide between Rick’s fingers, panting too embarrassingly hard. He looks back, trying to focus his vision and Rick is staring down, panting harder than he is.

Rick’s never– finished in his dreams. They never focused on him. Morty’s dizzy in a way he’s never been, thrill in him like electricity, but he can’t ask—Rick to—let him—do anything–a-and he knows Rick would make him say it, he hasn’t done anything without being so directly told, and Morty can’t even think it, won’t let himself, but he does pull Rick’s other hand onto his hip to let Rick move him however he wishes.

An unfamiliar noise cracks out behind him, more familiar curses follow, Ricks fingers twitch and pull harder at Morty’s hips and he thinks thinks thinks so hard about Rick’s cock sliding against him, there’s so many layers of fabric, wishes they were gone gone gone and he could feel his skin, the sweat, his– holy shit.

He leans back into Rick’s chest and looks, wants to see him—wants to see him come—

———————————————————

Morty wakes up, not hard but sticky. The bedsheets cling to his skin, to collected sweat.

He feels sick, he feels nauseus, he feels satisfied, confused, cocky.

He can’t think about it.

———————————————————

Before the door to the garage, he hesitates again, hears Rick shuffling, dropping something, swearing at it. Morty twists the handle and walks in.

“What,” Rick says without looking, sitting at a stool and holding a couple tiny micro-devices between his fingers. It feels like another world again, things are too confusing, he just—doesn’t know what to do.

“Uh, whatcha, whatcha up to?” Morty walks forward, twiddling his thumbs, peering curiously. Rick’s leg jitters, bouncing up and down. He’s never done that before.


End file.
